Forty-Eight

March’s Madness

King’s Bench Debtors’ Prison

“They indeed went the full nineteen miles?” Philip asked.

“I never would have believed it had I not been a witness!” George replied. “I tell you, thousands turned out, lining the course in a frenzy, to see history made.”

“One would expect so, given how long it took him to get around to it,” Philip remarked.

“Ten months,” said George. “According to March, six months just to engineer the contraption and another four spent in trials and training. It was like no driving vehicle you’ve ever seen, but more like a great long-legged spider on wheels.”

When unveiled, March’s racing chaise was indeed remarked upon as an object of singular fascination and universal awe.

“The strangest contraption I ever saw,” George confessed. “Little more than an undercarriage, and the driver perched on nothing more substantial than a leather sling covered in velvet.”

“He said it would be light as a feather when he finished with it,” Philip said.

“They even installed oil tins in the wheel boxes to continuously lubricate the axle tree to prevent it taking fire.”

“I can see how friction might be a concern, considering no vehicle has ever achieved a velocity nearing nineteen miles in an hour.”

George continued his tale, “When I arrived at Newmarket they were mapping out the course with stakes and cord. They began at the Six-mile House, via the Warren and past the Rubbing House, and continued through the Devil’s Ditch. In all, a four-mile loop. They had to run it three times and return back to the start, to get the total distance.”

“So he did it? And under an hour’s time?”

“In fifty-three minutes twenty-seven seconds!”

“The devil you say!”

“’Pon my word, Drake! But he never could have done it without Roderick Random, and he was infernally lucky to have had your Little Dan waiting in the wings. Thirty minutes prior to start, March’s head groom appears in a state of agitation. ‘My Lord March,’ he says. ‘There be sommat amiss w’ Peeper. ’E come up sudden lame this morning.’

“‘Hang you!’ says March. ‘Why wasn’t I advised sooner? Get me another horse!’ March then asks which ones are ready to run. The groom says Jack Slack and Little Dan were both ready to harness. Recalling what you’ve said of the horse, I suggested Little Dan.”

“An intrepid little fellow with endless bottom,” Philip said.

“Precisely what I conveyed to March, who commanded Little Dan be harnessed as the off-wheeler, and telling the groom to ‘look smart about it!’ Tugging a forelock, the groom dashes off to the rubbing house.

“At precisely seven o’clock comes Mr. Tuting, the ‘course clearer,’ fabulously well-mounted and garbed in crimson velvet like some self-proclaimed king of the turf. The chaise followed, pulled by the most impressive parade of racehorses in harness you’ve ever seen.”

“I’ve never seen any racehorses in harness before.”

“Beside the point!” George said. “The lot of ’em were jockeyed by postillions in matching blue satin waistcoats, buckskin breeches, white silk stockings, and black velvet caps.”

“Blue and white? The Hastings racing colors, a nice touch,” Philip remarked.

“The team was escorted on either side by the head grooms, but the horses were nervous. Jostling one another and pulling in their traces, they set the flimsy chaise to shake and rattle, and the odds to shift in one more last-minute wagering frenzy.

“With their ears pricked and nostrils flared in anticipation, they danced and jigged their way to the start, while the three umpires calibrated their watches and positioned themselves along the course. The umpires looked up at March, who gives the nod.

“The flag dropped, and the horses bolted! Taking off at a frenzied pace, the whole herd of ’em tore over the track, wild-eyed and wide-open, as if chased by some equine-savaging monster! As the postillions fought for control, the contraption followed on their frantic heels, bucking and swaying with its passenger holding on for dear life. The wheels veered on and off the course, smashing stakes and hitting ruts along the way.

“March was pacing to and fro, cursing like a sailor and shouting to the grooms. ‘Get hold of them, damn you! Before the bloody thing is rent to pieces!’

“Taafe calls out a new wager of one hundred guineas that the chaise won’t make the first four miles, while Lord Portmore counters at two hundred that the horses will become entangled in their harness well before hand.

“I’d placed a hundred pounds on March and stayed the course with trepidation, while others continued to lay odds against his success. Miraculously, the chaise survived the first circuit fully intact, and by the second loop the horses were well in hand, with the vehicle traveling brisk and smooth behind. March consults his timepiece and declares the first four miles in less than nine minutes!

“After the first runaway miles, the pace slackened but March’s racing vehicle indeed accomplished the impossible, upsetting the odds to win with six minutes thirty-three seconds to spare! They say two hundred thousand pounds exchanged hands on that wager, Drake!”

“Incredible, Bosky,” Philip remarked. “Damn it all to hell that I couldn’t have seen it.”

“If it’s any consolation, you came away with two thousand pounds! Surely more than enough to grease every palm needed to move your case along in the Chancery Court.”

“So again, I sit and wait.”

“I fear it’s all you can do.”

“But what of Sukey, George? You have not spoken of her. Have you seen her?”

“She is well enough,” George answered evasively.

“Then you have seen her,” Philip pressed.

“Aye,” George sighed.

“And?”

“’Tis the very last thing you’ll want to hear.”

“What is it?” Philip demanded.

“I suppose you’d rather it come from me than from the infernal broadsheets.” He took a breath, adding in a rush, “There’s talk she entertains a marriage proposal.”

“What! To whom? Who the blazes would be my rival? Tell me, George!”

“The Right Honorable William Pitt.”

“That wooden windbag? She can’t love him!”

“I’m sorry, old friend, but women are a fickle and faithless lot.” George’s attempt to soften the blow only further fed the flames of rage. Philip slammed his fist on the table. When that act failed to sufficiently vent his spleen, he upturned and smashed it against the stone wall.

“Damn her. And damn me to bloody hell!”